The Bride Hunt

by Margo Maguire

  Anvrai should have kept walking when he’d had the chance. He’d done many a march through the night and knew he could find his way south in spite of the autumn storm. He would have made it to English soil within a few short days.

  But he could not leave Isabel and Tillie in Roger’s care. They would surely perish.

  He was a fool to care. He’d done his duty by Lady Isabel, and he could leave. They had food and shelter, and all the tools they needed for survival. Anvrai could strike out on his own…before he had to spend another night lying near Isabel.

  It had been a mistake to go out to her in the rain, to make love to her as if he had something to offer a highborn lady, as though she had chosen him for her husband.

  Naught could have been farther from the truth.

  She sat down on the edge of Tillie’s bed, still holding Belle in her arms. Anvrai felt a surge of jealousy he had no right to feel. ’Twould be Roger whom she welcomed to her bed, Roger’s bairns that she held in her arms and suckled at her breast.

  Anvrai paced the room, feeling just as imprisoned as when he’d worn the Scots’ shackles. He should go out to the shed and find a corner where the roof did not leak, then clear the space so he could sleep there.

  Roger opened his eyes and glared up at him. “You are so restless. Can you not sit or lie down and sleep?”

  “Like you, Sir Roger? No. My mind is occupied with plans of leaving this place and escorting you back to Kettwyck,” he said. “Then I will hie myself to wherever King William engages the Scottish king.”

  “Where will you go?”

  Anvrai was not sure. Durham seemed a likely destination. Surely someone there would know where the king’s ships and armies had gone. “I’ll make my way east. William will meet King Malcolm on his own turf and force him to end the raids on Northumberland.”

  “’Tis an ambitious endeavor.”

  “Much less than Hastings.”

  “I was too young for Hastings,” Roger said, his words a welcome distraction from the sound of Isabel’s voice, quietly recounting a tale of old for Tillie’s benefit.

  Anvrai looked at Roger. “Aye. I’m sure you were.” There were many pages and squires in battle, much younger than Roger’s twelve or fourteen years at the time. Anvrai himself had been merely twenty at Hastings, but he’d carried his weight in battle, earning honors from William. But no property.

  “My sire bade me to stay in Rouen during the invasion. He…I was…”

  “Otherwise engaged, no doubt,” Anvrai said, keeping his gaze upon Isabel. She patted the bairn, then moved her lips to Belle’s head. Anvrai felt a tightening in his groin as she nuzzled the child, and he remembered the taste and texture of her lips upon his own. The blisters on her hands were nearly healed, and her torn nails had smoother edges. She’d tied her hair at her nape with a piece of twine, and in spite of the ragged tunic she wore, she looked as elegant and regal as the queen.

  He looked down at Roger, swathed like a bairn in his fur blanket. Only a fool could be satisfied with marriage to Roger. And Isabel was no fool.

  Anvrai muttered a quiet curse and pushed open the door. A surge of cold, wet air rushed in, eliciting a complaint from Roger. Anvrai closed the door and felt more trapped than before.

  When he turned, Tillie was struggling to leave her bed. She’d swung her bare legs over the side, and when she stood, she surely would have stumbled, but for Isabel’s assistance.

  “Tillie, please,” Isabel said.

  “I must go outside, my lady,” she replied in a hushed voice. “I—”

  “Can you not…” Isabel looked ’round. “Is there not some way to…to take care of it inside?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “I must go outside.”

  Anvrai was not surprised by Tillie’s appalled reaction. He’d witnessed her shyness even as she’d given birth. She would certainly not use a pot inside, any more than Isabel would.

  Isabel held Belle in one arm and helped Tillie with the other. They managed to get Tillie’s shoes on, and Isabel pulled a blanket ’round the girl’s shoulders. They stepped over Roger and headed to the door, pushing past Anvrai to go outside, where the rain had subsided to a light drizzle. Isabel stopped suddenly, turned back, and laid the infant in Anvrai’s arms, startling him. “Hold her until we return.”

  ’Twas only because of his quick reflexes that he did not drop the child.

  Isabel’s voice was curt, and she did not look up at him, but covered herself with a blanket, picked up a lantern, and went out with Tillie, leaving the door gaping open.

  Anvrai closed it and looked down at the bairn for the first time since her birth, seeing beyond her red, wrinkled skin. Little Belle had two good eyes of blue and a dimple in each cheek, five fingers on each hand, and when she kicked free of the blanket, he counted ten toes.

  An odd, unpleasant sensation swelled in his chest, and he wished he’d never come upon this lonely cottage at the edge of the woods. Then he wouldn’t have had reason to think of all those old sufferings…He never would have found Isabel weeping her heart out at the back of the cottage and lost control of himself with her.

  He let out a low growl and placed the infant on the bed. He might be a fool, but he was no nursemaid.

  Tillie was not as strong as she thought. Isabel lit the way, helping the girl to the privy, where she took care of her needs. The short trip was a welcome reprieve from Anvrai’s indifference, but Tillie’s sudden cry of dismay alarmed her.

  “There is so much blood,” Tillie whimpered. “Will I d-die, Lady Isabel?”

  Isabel took a deep breath. “No. Of course not.” Her voice was steady, even if her conviction was not. If only another woman were present, she would not feel so helpless. Mayhap Anvrai would know if there was something to be done about Tillie’s bleeding. He had certainly been knowledgeable about the birthing itself.

  “Wait here for me, Tillie. I’ll get some more cloths to stanch the blood.” She left the lantern with Tillie and hurried back to the cottage in the dark. ’Twas not right that the girl should survive hardship, rape, and a year’s captivity, only to die in childbirth. It was by God’s grace alone that Isabel had escaped the same fate.

  And what of Kathryn? Had she managed to get free of her captors, or had she already been forced to submit? Was she already pregnant with a Scotsman’s child?

  Isabel stepped into the cottage and stopped abruptly when she saw Anvrai sitting on the bed, holding Belle while the infant suckled the end of his finger. He looked up at her, and Isabel watched as a crimson blush colored his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “She would not stop squawking. She wants her mother.”

  “Tillie is still at the privy. Anvrai…She’s bleeding. I’m afraid she—” Her voice cracked with emotion. She covered her lips with one hand as they began to tremble. “She’s d-dying.”

  In tears, Isabel whirled away from him and gathered up the clean cloths at the foot of the bed. “I must go back to her.”

  Anvrai touched her shoulder. “Wait here. I’ll carry her back to her bed.” He handed Belle to her and left without further discussion.

  Isabel pressed her nose to the infant’s head and took a shaky breath. What if Tillie died? ’Twould mean Belle’s death, too, for there was no way to feed her without Tillie. Her tears fell as she knelt and prayed for Tillie and the bairn in her arms. Not even Anvrai’s healing skills could stop the girl’s bleeding.

  In a short while, Anvrai returned to the cottage, carrying Tillie. He deposited her in the bed, took her shoes and covered her with the blanket. “Are you in pain?”

  “Aye,” Tillie replied in a weak and shaky voice. Isabel approached the bed and stood beside Anvrai.

  “You have good color,” Anvrai remarked, frowning. “I’ve never known a soldier who looked so healthy to die of bleeding.”

  Isabel looked at Anvrai, his countenance strong, but puzzled. “Mayhap ’tis not unusual to bleed after a birth.”

  Roger propped himself up on one elb
ow and spoke irritably. “Mayhap you could all quiet your voices so that I can sleep.”

  Isabel was shocked by Roger’s coldness. None of what had happened to Tillie was her own fault, and Isabel could not see how Roger could fail to understand that. Would he have condemned her, too, if the Scottish chieftain had raped her?

  With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she felt she knew the answer. Even her own father would disown her, and heaven help her if she bore a Scottish bastard.

  Yet she was not so certain of Anvrai’s reaction. He’d been naught but kind to Tillie and helpful with Belle, albeit reluctantly.

  Anvrai ignored Roger’s complaint, though he was clearly anxious to put space between himself and the women. “’Tis likely Lady Isabel is right,” he said to Tillie, and stepped away from the bed.

  He went to the opposite side of the room where he rummaged through Tillie’s food stores. Isabel half expected him to start packing food into their satchel in preparation for leaving the following morn, or even to go tonight. He was obviously disgusted with Roger, but whatever he felt for Isabel was hardly enough to hold him.

  She watched surreptitiously as he cleaned out the bowl she’d used to make the biscuits and started to prepare something else.

  Entranced by the workings of his hands, Isabel rocked Belle in her arms as Tillie fell asleep again.

  Anvrai did not look up as he worked, but concentrated on mixing ingredients in the bowl, leaving Isabel free to peruse the features of his face. The scars were primarily centered ’round his empty eye socket and one thick seam that split the side of his jaw.

  Isabel had seen men who wore eye patches and wondered why Anvrai did not do so. If his ruined eye were covered, his visage would not be quite so intimidating, so…terrifying.

  He dipped his hands into the mixture in the bowl and pulled out a ball of dough. Covering his hands in flour, he kneaded the dough, pushing and pulling it, then placing it upon a flat board and covering it with the bowl.

  He glanced up and caught her watching him. His jaw flexed once before he spoke. “’Tis bread.”

  Isabel nodded. She should have expected that he would know how to prepare such a basic food. He’d been naught but competent and resourceful since they’d fled the Scottish village.

  Belle fell asleep, so Isabel laid her down beside Tillie, then went to make her own bed nearby. There was very little free space in the cottage, with the bed and table taking up much of the room. Roger lay near the fire, and the bucket was in the center.

  She emptied the contents of the bucket and replaced it, then took a fur blanket and lay down upon the floor. There was no space to lie near Roger, so she made a place for herself, aware that Anvrai would have no choice but to sleep beside her. She fell into an uneasy sleep, afraid that he would prop himself up in a distant corner just to avoid lying next to her.

  Anvrai’s senses were full of Isabel. She’d rolled toward him for warmth or comfort…he did not know which, but he relished those few moments when he could hold her in his arms without consequence.

  She’d tucked her head under his chin, and her breath warmed his throat. Her breasts pressed against his chest and his cock grew as it nestled against the warm cleft between her legs. He groaned with arousal, and she shifted, pressing even closer.

  ’Twas hell.

  But he slid one arm ’round her waist and pulled her even closer. The urge to plunge himself into her was great, but he had to content himself with much less. There would be no more kisses, no passionate fondling. Their interlude earlier had been an aberration.

  Isabel’s young man lay upon the floor on the other side of the bucket, and had there been room to lie beside him, she would certainly have done so.

  Regaining his good judgment, Anvrai took his arm from Isabel’s body. He inched away from her, but she moved with him, seeking the heat of his body. Surely that was the only attraction.

  Somehow, he managed to sleep, but he awoke several times through the night as Tillie’s bairn whimpered and demanded her mother’s attention. Neither Isabel nor Roger stirred. Anvrai went back to sleep each time, and ’twas nearly dawn before he awoke for the day.

  He found his arm resting across Isabel’s waist while she slept with her back curled into his belly. He pressed his nose to the soft spot between her neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply before pushing himself to his feet. Quietly, he stepped over her and let himself out of the cottage.

  ’Twas cool outside, but at least it was not raining. They would be able to resume their walk and put some distance between themselves and Scotland.

  He started for the privy, but stopped in his tracks. They could not leave the Norman girl. Isabel would never allow it.

  But Tillie would certainly not be able to walk so soon, at least not the miles Anvrai had hoped to cover. He glanced at the sky, dark but for the earliest signs of dawn to the east. ’Twas past harvesting time and would soon be winter. The weather would only worsen as the days and weeks progressed.

  He looked back at the cottage and sighed. If they delayed their journey much longer, ’twould be best to stay there in the cottage. They would be cramped, but the building would provide adequate shelter from the weather. And if they were careful, there would be food enough to last until spring.

  But Anvrai had no wish to delay his return to England. Nor could he keep his sanity if he had to spend months in the close confines of the cottage with Isabel and her chosen spouse.

  He picked up wood for the fire and returned to the cottage, where Tillie and Isabel had begun to stir. Isabel took the bairn, giving Tillie a chance to go outside. Anvrai kicked Roger’s foot to awaken him.

  The boy grimaced. “Watch yourself,” he growled.

  Anvrai laughed caustically. “Get up, Sir Roger. You’re going to earn your keep today.”

  Chapter 13

  “What do you mean?”

  Anvrai took his snares and gave Roger several nudges toward the door. “We have work to do before we break our fast.”

  He felt Isabel’s gaze upon him but ignored it as well as Roger’s protests and headed out toward the woods. The boy looked pathetic in the hermit’s oversized fur tunic and his own torn hose. Anvrai almost took pity and allowed him to remain inside with the women.

  Almost.

  “We’ll set snares this morning so we’ll have fresh meat tonight.”

  “What? We’re staying here?”

  Roger’s question decided it. They would not leave without Tillie. Nor would they wait until she was capable of walking. “When we’re through here, we’ll find what we need to build a sturdy litter to carry Tillie and her bairn.”

  Roger stopped in his tracks. “I am no carpenter.”

  Nor was he a hunter or a fighter. He’d done very little to help in their efforts to survive. Isabel had done significantly more: from the killing of the Scottish chieftain and the fire that followed; knowing they had to escape by boat; rowing when Anvrai had become exhausted…Even the tunic he wore was due to her skills. She was not the brainless beauty he’d originally thought, yet Roger was the man she’d chosen for her husband. It made no sense.

  “Watch for bird nests. You can collect whatever eggs you find.”

  “I’m not—”

  “A survivor?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you want to eat?”

  “Of course.”

  “There is no one here to serve you,” Anvrai said. “If you want to eat, you must work for it.”

  As Isabel had done. With blistered hands and a bruised body, she had toiled to do her part—and Roger’s. ’Twas time for the boy to start pulling his own weight instead of relying upon Isabel and everyone else to take care of him.

  “We should leave the girl and her bairn.”

  Anvrai did not respond to Roger’s idiocy, but set the first snare.

  “She has been here a year…She has food…”

  “Your father would not leave her.”

  “My father? What
do you know of my father?”

  “I fought beside him at Hastings. And again at Romney. He is an honorable man.”

  “He would wish for my timely return. Waiting until we can travel with the girl—”

  “Feel free to go on ahead,” Anvrai said. “I’m sure Lady Isabel will prefer to wait here until we can bring the maid and her child.”

  Roger muttered unintelligibly and picked up eggs from a nest he found in the deep grass. Anvrai knew the boy would not choose to leave on his own. He was foolish but not stupid.

  “When I take Isabel to Pirou, I will have a garrison of knights to protect the estate,” he said. “I will not risk another attack like the one at Kettwyck.”

  “’Tis much safer in the southern provinces, Roger.”

  “I am aware of that.” His tone was petulant. “But I won’t risk my wife’s safety, even in the south.”

  Anvrai asked the question he had come to dread. “Have you asked Lady Isabel to be your wife?”

  Roger shook his head. “No. But her father himself gave me his blessing on the night of the fete. We will marry as soon as we return to Kettwyck.”

  They headed back toward the cottage. “What if her family perished in the attack?”

  “All the more reason to marry her and take her away.”

  Anvrai did not like to admit that was a good point, one he had not considered before. He did not want to take Isabel to Kettwyck before he learned the fate of her parents and sister. Much better to take her to Belmere and await news there, but Roger might assert his rights as her bridegroom…as her guardian.

  The sound of nearby voices on the footpath stopped him in his tracks.

  “Go back to the cottage,” Anvrai said quietly. “Circle ’round, away from the path. Put out the fire and protect the women if necessary.”

  Roger grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?”

  “Be still and listen.”

  Roger’s eyes widened when he finally heard the approaching voices.

  “There are men traveling the path,” Anvrai said. “I’m going to see to it they do not come to the cottage.”